


Emotions

by thinkingstar



Category: Inkheart (2008), Tintenwelt-Trilogie | Inkheart Trilogy - Cornelia Funke
Genre: Character Death Mentioned, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One-sided at first, Spoilers for the trilogy, and occurs, but it is mentioned, changing relationship, growing relationship, inkdeath, inkspell, the death is not graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-27
Updated: 2009-01-27
Packaged: 2018-04-24 17:11:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4928131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinkingstar/pseuds/thinkingstar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Through time, Farid's emotions towards Dustfinger, Roxanna and himself change. What sparks them, how do they grow and how can it end? A wee little oddly formatted fic I wrote the first time I read the trilogy. Transferred from FF.net</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emotions

Farid was jealous.

He was jealous of Roxanne, Roxanne who took Dustfinger's heart and attention. He was jealous every time they looked at each other, of the way Dustfinger could and would touch her with such ease. And the jealousy only grew with each awkwardly returned hug from the other man. Watching the way Roxanne lay her head in Dustfinger's lap, the way he stroked her hair, Farid wanted nothing more than to knock the hand away. It was a childish urge. And so eh sat away from them, petted Gwin and Jink and did his best to ignore the only thing he couldn't take his eyes off.

Sometimes, he wanted to drag Dustfinger away from the, into the Wayless Woods until they truly lost their way and would never find their way back to the others.

He reveled in the moments when Roxanne glared at them. Every time he heard her accuse him of being Dustfinger's child, he rejoiced within. He'd even tried to style his hair like the other man's, brushing it with his fingers around his face. The dress of a firedancer didn't help to distinguish them, the colors only accenting any similarities and he took any opportunities to wear those colors. The glares he earned from her were sweeter, almost, than fire.

Farid was bitter.

He tried to fight that feeling, the bitterness that welled up within him. What right had she to take away that body, to take Dustfinger away from him? The other had chosen to die for him. He'd left Farid alone in this world. What right did Roxanne have to hide her husband from him? All he wanted was a moment with the body, a moment to promise Dustfinger that he wouldn't leave him away. He would do anything to bring him back.

Sometimes, he wanted to scream that he hadn't asked Dustfinger to bring him back.

The bitterness was hard to fight when he dug deep in the dirt, trying not to look up at Orpheus. Everyone wanted to keep him from Dustfinger. None of them would help him. But Farid knew he couldn't help himself and so he dug deeper and deeper, each shoveful of dirt only reminding him that he wasn't any close to his goal. How far into the earth would he go before he found what he wanted? Or would he never find what he was seeking, would he only dig through the world and the fall on the other side, useless?

Farid was scared.

Hadn't he caused Dustfinger's death once? No one had let him forget that while he'd been dead. And his being alive again hadn't changed that at all. He had been dead. Dustfinger had been dead and it had been his fault. There was nothing he wouldn't do to prevent that, nothing in the world he wouldn't do to keep the other man alive. Hadn't Dustfinger's first risk after being brought back been for him? He didn't want to add anything to that, no deliberately or accidentally.

Sometimes, he wanted to run away from Dustfinger, to be sure that the other man would never be hurt for his sake again.

He hung at the back of the group, avoiding Brianna and Roxanne as avidly as he watched Dustfinger. Their looks still burnt him, still hurt him. He was to blame, after all. And he hadn't been able to bring him back. None of his plans had worked. They had all failed and it had been Silvertongue who'd saved him in the end, who'd saved what felt all of them. How could he deny that?

Farid was lonely.

He stayed so far from Dustfinger, so nervous as he stared at the back of his head. But he didn't dare take his attention away. No one else could protect Dustfinger the way he could. No one else knew that a life given meant a life owed and he owed Dustfinger so much more than just a mortal life. He would not be distracted from his duty.

Sometimes, he wanted to crawl closer as Dustfinger slept, to slip between him and Roxanne and feel the warmth of fire that only the other man could produce.

Even Meggie had other people who held her attention when Mo was gone. Farid had no one but Dustfinger. All that time he'd spent surviving on the hope of bringing him back, surviving on empty promises, and now he was alone again. He only barely knew what was happening to the man he'd waited for. His other friendships, his loves and his thoughts, had all floundered. All he wanted was to be beside Dustfinger's side. That was where he belonged.

Farid was resigned.

Happiness was not something he was going to achieve. Dustfinger was back, happy with Roxanne, with his daughter and his almost adopted son. Meggie had Doria, Mo had Resa, Elinor had Darius. All Farid had was fire. Fire was wonderful, he loved the heat and the strength, but it wasn't the only traveling companion he wanted. As he followed the paths Dustfinger had told him about, he imagined the other at his side. He tried to remember everything he saw in perfect clarity, tried to draw the beautiful wooded depths to share the changes with Dustfinger, to show the other man that nothing stayed the same, to tempt him out of his love and family.

Sometimes, he wanted to go back to the farmhouse and tell Roxanne he was Dustfinger's son, to beg a part of their family for himself.

In each city, he met someone: a man, a woman, someone older than himself with long hair who watched his performance raptly. And he would introduce himself to them with a smile that he knew looked like Dustfinger's because he'd practiced in mirrors until it was perfect. They would talk for a time, talk until they realized he was sleeping on the ground in the forest. Almost all of them would invite him into their hearth, offer him cushions or straw or something to sleep on. And in the middle of the night, he would watch them sleep, try to pretend they were Dustfinger and protect them as they slept.

Farid was content.

He was only ever glad when he returned to the farmhouse. Every few months, when he couldn't bear it any longer, he would return. The Wayless Woods seemed far friendlier when he was headed there. And the fence would emerge from the ground in front of his eyes. Even the goose didn't bother him, a few bites of bread bribing silence. Roxanne's glare was worth it the moment he laid eyes on Dustfinger. The awkward hug was worth more than the coins he earned.

Sometimes, he wanted to stay in that embrace until Dustfinger forced him away, to curl against that strong chest and never let go.

But nothing, nothing was better than stepping outside with Dustfinger. Together they would walk to the edge of the woods and sit among the trees beside each other. Farid would bring out his line drawings, the simple sketches he tried to do. And they would talk. They would share memories of the paths, of the occurrences that seemed similar but were never the same. And sometimes Farid would rest his head on Dustfinger's shoulder. Or Dustfinger, seeing him shiver, would drape his cloak across him even as they spoke.

Farid was nervous.

His travels had taken him across the world and back again. He'd grown past Dustfinger's height. Kings and princes the world around knew Farid as the new firedancer, knew him as well as Dustfinger had been known. They respected him, adored him, invited him to their kingdoms. The strolling players had welcomed him as one of their own. Many nights spent with them had given him comfort he had never found alone, comfort he had never found in protecting faceless strangers.

Sometimes, he wanted to settle down, but he knew there was no one he would ever settle down with besides a man who had already settled down.

But he wanted something more than what he had. He wanted so much more. His stomach and heart had tied themselves in knots inside him as he walked up to the familiar farmhouse, to the achingly familiar farmhouse. The goose no longer greeted him at the door, begging for scraps even as it tried to kill him. Brianna sometimes came to visit, though never when Farid did. And it was Dustfinger who opened the door and smiled at him. With the words on the tip of his tongue, Dustfinger told him of Roxanne's death, of her illness in childbirth, the fever the consumed both her and the infant. Then he returned Farid's embrace as eagerly as the dark man gave it.

Farid was guilty.

He should not have been so eager to keep his arm around Dustfinger, to lead the seemingly older man back into the house. Each word of the explanation seemed to age him, at least until Farid was sitting beside him as they sat beside the fire. Something was brewing, hot and sweet to the senses. There was more talk, talk of memories and people, the living and the dead. And Dustfinger didn't move when Farid rested his head on the shoulder, nor did Farid move when half the cloak was slid over his shoulders.

Sometimes, he wanted nothing more than that moment to last forever.

And when the food was done, when the fire had started to fade in front of them, crackling voice dying to a whisper, Farid lead Dustfinger to his bed. His fingers wrapped around the other's hand. He could feel the fire in his veins, the fire in his own veins, the heat that seemed so close but was so far.

Farid was happy.

Because Dustfinger hadn't let go when he'd laid down. And the blanket had been drawn aside, leaving room for the dark man to stretch out beside him. Together beneath the sheet, they lay still. What could he do? How could he touch the other man beyond the hands they still held, clasped together tightly? His eyes closed as he soaked in the heat from beside him. What more could he want?

Sometimes, he wanted… nothing more than this.

And it was a long, pale arm that first wrapped around his shoulders, drew him into the warm embrace he'd wanted to know for such a long time. Those slender fingers removed his clothing, undid the buttons and then pressed closer than ever before. Nothing came between their skin and the fire-heat danced between them. And when Farid slept in that embrace, when he let himself succumb to the embrace, the warmth, the love and the desire, he was smiling as he hadn't smiled in years.

There, in Dustfinger's arms, Farid smiled like himself.


End file.
